I've believed for a long time that life is cyclic: no, that's not precisely right. It feels more of a continuous loop with joints and cartilidge that can traverse life's obstacles. Sometimes it's not convenient to believe that, especially when life dishes out one bad event after another.
And God knows I have had years with so many balls in the air it blocked out the sun.
Over time, what came from reading the kinds of books I love is that there is positive and negative energy and a natural balance between the two. Whatever you want to name it (karma, mojo), there's a jarring moment when you become aware that your life is either in or out of balance.
God's in it all the way but there's free will to complicate matters, and our imperfect natures that tempt and cloud our judgment and misinterpret or manipulate life to our own advantage. Probably justification is the worst of our sins, because it pre-dates most of our bad decisions, but that's for another blog.
If balance is the goal, restraint is the means. There's shiny things everywhere to catch my eye, activities and chores and work and family that looks fun and engaging. I know this of me, that I want to fit it all in. There is a lesson I know but can't apply: that to keep an optimal balance, I can't do it all . Coming to a place where I can let go and be at peace with the limitations is my homework.
Jun 23, 2009
Jun 18, 2009
OZ
Life just smacks you upside the head sometimes.
Went to the doc today to check out a bump on my left hip. No big deal, Doc says, birsitis and sciatica. Exercise, keep losing weight, and do yoga. YOGA?
Anything else? she asked. Now that you mention it, I've noticed my left arm has less range of motion. Can you look at that, too? Oh, and this bunion bugs me. And how about my plantar fascitis and the Olive Oyl shoes I am forced to wear and ... OMG! I've become my mother.
Driving home, as I salivated over a 100 pill supply of Naproxin with - count them: TWO refills! - I realized I'm in OZ: the old zone. Here I am, achy and creaky and cranky in the mornings, having to think long and hard about 2 hours of weeding because I may not be able to move the next day, let alone get up off my knees. I guess Lazer Tag is a definite no.
Nowadays, a healthy weekend recovery plan involves a slugfest day on the sofa in jams, reading a book or watching back to back movies. Yah dah, yah dah, I can say all I want about the greuling pace of life, but the twelve pairs of cheaters strewn all over the house, in the car, at the office, and in the glove box say otherwise.
I would long for the moment when pedaling would slow for a little coasting, and straining muscles could relax, to be able to savor the sun and breeze and earn the moment. Will it ever be as perfect as it was in my head? Probably not. But it's still a place I wanted to see, creaky bones and all.
Went to the doc today to check out a bump on my left hip. No big deal, Doc says, birsitis and sciatica. Exercise, keep losing weight, and do yoga. YOGA?
Anything else? she asked. Now that you mention it, I've noticed my left arm has less range of motion. Can you look at that, too? Oh, and this bunion bugs me. And how about my plantar fascitis and the Olive Oyl shoes I am forced to wear and ... OMG! I've become my mother.
Driving home, as I salivated over a 100 pill supply of Naproxin with - count them: TWO refills! - I realized I'm in OZ: the old zone. Here I am, achy and creaky and cranky in the mornings, having to think long and hard about 2 hours of weeding because I may not be able to move the next day, let alone get up off my knees. I guess Lazer Tag is a definite no.
Nowadays, a healthy weekend recovery plan involves a slugfest day on the sofa in jams, reading a book or watching back to back movies. Yah dah, yah dah, I can say all I want about the greuling pace of life, but the twelve pairs of cheaters strewn all over the house, in the car, at the office, and in the glove box say otherwise.
I would long for the moment when pedaling would slow for a little coasting, and straining muscles could relax, to be able to savor the sun and breeze and earn the moment. Will it ever be as perfect as it was in my head? Probably not. But it's still a place I wanted to see, creaky bones and all.
Jun 15, 2009
Forward March
Eve successfully raised her babies in the Bridal Veil hanging plant by the back slider and last week two astonishingly chubby babies fluttered away. For a few days one of them lingered, totally unconcerned by our daily activity of watering plants and checking the pool. Very cool. And then this week, as the baby built up the courage to explore new worlds, we discovered another egg. What is this, the Holiday Inn?!
We've been in a huddle lately about the future and how to best shape it through planning. The terrible economic conditions have been a super conductor to the discussion, but it was always there, a nagging little itch to plan, plan, plan. I've let my focus be on life in full sail and the beauty of the present scenery.
I know that planning anything yields better results but somehow this topic was mired in my diminishing role in an otherwise productive life. I never have come around to believing I'm getting old.
I've said it a million times: women are adaptable creatures, a big jumble of heart, flexibility and spirit that leaps through the stages of life -- little girls, women, workers, wives, mothers, homemakers, painters, landscapers, photo journalists, educators, medics and psychologists. We are first, last, and invisible as historians of our clan.
So if this isn't about adaptability, it has to be about value and place, and the perception of discarded old people in our country. Maybe it's time to see those wrinkles in the mirror and notice the need for more sleep and a quiet day at home after a long week.
Today looks like a good day to grow up, into life as it stands, not tinted by the sweet memories of noisy children and messy playrooms. I reluctantly admit the time to plan and scheme and dream and work has arrived.
And so I will -- Forward March! -- into wherever, walking boldly and surefooted, through transitions in my thinking, my body, my identity, my perceptions, keeping tight to the faith that the path will be lit.
We've been in a huddle lately about the future and how to best shape it through planning. The terrible economic conditions have been a super conductor to the discussion, but it was always there, a nagging little itch to plan, plan, plan. I've let my focus be on life in full sail and the beauty of the present scenery.
I know that planning anything yields better results but somehow this topic was mired in my diminishing role in an otherwise productive life. I never have come around to believing I'm getting old.
I've said it a million times: women are adaptable creatures, a big jumble of heart, flexibility and spirit that leaps through the stages of life -- little girls, women, workers, wives, mothers, homemakers, painters, landscapers, photo journalists, educators, medics and psychologists. We are first, last, and invisible as historians of our clan.
So if this isn't about adaptability, it has to be about value and place, and the perception of discarded old people in our country. Maybe it's time to see those wrinkles in the mirror and notice the need for more sleep and a quiet day at home after a long week.
Today looks like a good day to grow up, into life as it stands, not tinted by the sweet memories of noisy children and messy playrooms. I reluctantly admit the time to plan and scheme and dream and work has arrived.
And so I will -- Forward March! -- into wherever, walking boldly and surefooted, through transitions in my thinking, my body, my identity, my perceptions, keeping tight to the faith that the path will be lit.
Jun 5, 2009
Tweaking
Words take on all sorts of other meanings in today's society, but tweaking still means to me the intricate final adjustments when two things fit together.
No truer is that than with relationships. Strong at first, big and bold, a present moment thrill ride that seems like it condenses life into a series of dense bursts of feeling, each stronger than the next. It's addictive, this place we go when love is new.
And then time settles us down, into a routine, and the balance sheet of compatibility begins. There are things we notice, as the relationship tweaks and broadens. We begin integrating who we are with who we are to each other. If all goes well, we advance.
No longer a roller coaster ride, the relationship is at the apex of discovery as families and friends integrate and bond. Life today is so different, the way I spend time, with whom and how. A tinge of longing bubbles up -- melancholy, maybe -- and I vaguely miss something I can't identify. What is it I forgot to pack?
The baby doves in the nest are nearly grown now, right before our eyes, nurtured and protected by their doting parents. And I wonder, as they spread their wings and hop around the hanging plant under the eaves, if they realize the changes in store on this final stretch before they complete their journey. It will never be the same once they decide to go. They will return as parents someday, under our awning off the back porch, but it will not be the same. But we will celebrate them anyway: our hearts full of hope as they flutter and fly.
No truer is that than with relationships. Strong at first, big and bold, a present moment thrill ride that seems like it condenses life into a series of dense bursts of feeling, each stronger than the next. It's addictive, this place we go when love is new.
And then time settles us down, into a routine, and the balance sheet of compatibility begins. There are things we notice, as the relationship tweaks and broadens. We begin integrating who we are with who we are to each other. If all goes well, we advance.
No longer a roller coaster ride, the relationship is at the apex of discovery as families and friends integrate and bond. Life today is so different, the way I spend time, with whom and how. A tinge of longing bubbles up -- melancholy, maybe -- and I vaguely miss something I can't identify. What is it I forgot to pack?
The baby doves in the nest are nearly grown now, right before our eyes, nurtured and protected by their doting parents. And I wonder, as they spread their wings and hop around the hanging plant under the eaves, if they realize the changes in store on this final stretch before they complete their journey. It will never be the same once they decide to go. They will return as parents someday, under our awning off the back porch, but it will not be the same. But we will celebrate them anyway: our hearts full of hope as they flutter and fly.
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